"I don't see, mamma, how we could be doing less; I've only an audience ofone, and she is wasting her time."

"Well, carissima, it is settled. It's off for a year."

"The reception? Why so?"

"Your father cannot arrange it. He has too much on hand this season, andmay be away."

"There, McDonald, we've got a reprieve," and Evelyn gave a sigh ofrelief.

The Scotch woman smiled, and only said, "Then I shall have time to finishthis."

Evelyn jumped up, threw herself into her mother's lap, and began tosmooth her hair and pet her. "I'm awfully glad. I'd ever so much ratherstay in than come out. Yes, dear little mother."

"Little?"

"Yes." And the girl pulled her mother from her chair, and made her standup to measure. "See, McDonald, almost an inch taller than mamma, andwhen I do my hair on top!"

"And see, mamma"--the girl was pirouetting on the floor--" I can do thosesteps you do. Isn't it Spanish?"

"Rather Spanish-American, I guess. This is the way."

Evelyn clapped her hands. "Isn't that lovely!"

"You are only a little brownie, after all." Her mother was holding herat arm's--length and studying her critically, wondering if she would everbe handsome.

The girl was slender, but not tall. Her figure had her mother's grace,but not its suggestion of yielding suppleness. She was an undoubtedbrunette--complexion olive, hair very dark, almost black except in thesunlight, and low on her forehead-chin a little strong, and nose piquantto say the least of it. Certainly features not regular nor classic. Themouth, larger than her mother's, had full lips, the upper one short, andadmirable curves, strong in repose, but fascinating when she smiled. Aface not handsome, but interesting. And the eyes made you hesitate tosay she was not handsome, for they were large, of a dark hazel andchangeable, eyes that flashed with merriment, or fell into sadness underthe long eyelashes; and it would not be safe to say that they could notblaze with indignation. Not a face to go wild about, but when you felther character through it, a face very winning in its dark virgin purity.

"I do wonder where she came from? "Mrs. Mavick was saying to herself, asshe threw herself upon a couch in her own room and took up the latestSpanish novel.

IX

Celia Howard had been, in a way, Philip's inspiration ever since the dayswhen they quarreled and made up on the banks of the Deer field. And afortunate thing for him it was that in his callow years there was a womanin whom he could confide. Her sympathy was everything, even if heradvice was not always followed. In the years of student life andpreparation they had not often met, but they were constant andpainstaking correspondents. It was to her that he gave the runningchronicle of his life, and poured out his heart and aspirations.Unconsciously he was going to school to a woman, perhaps the mostimportant part of his education. For, though in this way he might neverhope to understand woman, he was getting most valuable knowledge ofhimself.

As a guide, Philip was not long in discovering that Celia was somewhatuncertain. She kept before him a very high ideal; she expected him to bedistinguished and successful, but, her means varied from time to time.Now she would have him take one path and now another. And Philip learnedto read in this varying advice the changes in her own experience. Therewas a time when she hoped he would be a great scholar: there was noposition so noble as that of a university professor or president. Thenshe turned short round and extolled the business life: get money, get aposition, and then you can study, write books, do anything you like andbe independent. Then came a time--this was her last year in college--when science seemed the only thing. That was really a benefit tomankind: create something, push discovery, dispel ignorance.

"Why, Phil, if you could get people to understand about ventilation, thenecessity of pure air, you would deserve a monument. And, besides--thisis an appeal to your lower nature--science is now the thing that pays."Theology she never considered; that was just now too uncertain in itsdirection. Law she had finally approved; it was still respectable; itwas a very good waiting-ground for many opportunities, and it did notabsolutely bar him from literature, for which she perceived he had asneaking fondness.

Philip wondered if Celia was not thinking of the law for herself.She had tried teaching, she had devoted herself for a time to work in aCollege Settlement, she had learned stenography, she had talked oflearning telegraphy, she had been interested in women's clubs, in a civicclub, in the political education of women, and was now a professor ofeconomics in a girl's college.

It finally dawned upon Philip, who was plodding along, man fashion, inone of the old ruts, feeling his way, like a true American, into thecareer that best suited him, that Celia might be a type of the awakenedAmerican woman, who does not know exactly what she wants.To be sure, she wants everything. She has recently come into an openplace, and she is distracted by the many opportunities. She has nosooner taken up one than she sees another that seems better, or moreimportant in the development of her sex, and she flies to that.But nothing, long, seems the best thing. Perhaps men are in the way,monopolizing all the best things. Celia had never made a suggestion ofthis kind, but Philip thought she was typical of the women who pushindividualism so far as never to take a dual view of life.

"I have just been," Celia wrote in one of her letters, when she was anactive club woman, "out West to a convention of the Federation of Women'sClubs. Such a striking collection of noble, independent women!Handsome, lots of them, and dressed--oh, my friend, dress is still a partof it! So different from a man's convention! Cranks? Yes, a few leftover. It was a fine, inspiring meeting. But, honestly, I could notexactly make out what they were federating about, and what they weregoing to do when they got federated. It sort of came over me,I am such a weak sister, that there is such a lot of work done in thisworld with no object except the doing of it."

A more recent letter:--"Do you remember Aunt Hepsy, who used to keep thelittle thread-and-needle and candy shop in Rivervale? Such a dear,sweet, contented old soul! Always a smile and a good word for everycustomer. I can see her now, picking out the biggest piece of candy inthe dish that she could afford to give for a little fellow's cent. Itnever came over me until lately how much good that old woman did in theworld. I remember what a comfort it was to go and talk with her. Well,I am getting into a frame of mind to want to be an Aunt Hepsy. There isso much sawdust in everything--No, I'm not low-spirited. I'm justphilosophical--I've a mind to write a life of Aunt Hepsy, and let theworld see what a real useful life is."

And here is a passage from the latest:--"What an interesting story yourfriend--I hope he isn't you friend, for I don't half like him--has madeout of that Mavick girl! If I were the girl's mother I should want toroast him over the coals. Is there any truth in it?

"Of course I read it, as everybody did and read the crawl out, and lookedfor more. So it is partly our fault, but what a shame it is, theinvasion of family life! Do tell me, if you happen to see her--the girl--driving in the Park or anywhere--of course you never will--what shelooks like. I should like to see an unsophisticated millionaire-ess!But it is an awfully interesting problem, invented or not I'm pretty deepin psychology these days, and I'd give anything to come in contact withthat girl. You would just see a woman, and you wouldn't know. I'd see asoul. Dear me, if I'd only had the chance of that Scotch woman! Don'tyou see, if we could only get to really know one mind and soul, we shouldknow it all. I mean scientifically. I know what you are thinking, thatall women have that chance. What you think is impertinent--to thesubject."

Indeed, the story of Evelyn interested everybody. It was taken upseriously in the country regions. It absorbed New York gossip for twodays, and then another topic took possession of the mercurial city; butit was the sort of event to take possession of the country mind. NewYork millionaires get more than their share of attention in the countrypress at all times, but this romance became the subject of household talkand church and sewing-circle gossip, and all the women were eager formore details, and speculated endlessly about the possible character andcareer of the girl.

Alice wrote Philip from Rivervale that her aunt Patience was very muchexcited by it. "'The poor thing,' she said, 'always to have somebodypoking round, seeing every blessed thing you do or don't do; it woulddrive me crazy. There is that comfort in not having anything much--youhave yourself. You tell Philip that I hope he doesn't go there often.I've no objection to his being kind to the poor thing when they meet, anddoing neighborly things, but I do hope he won't get mixed up with thatset.' It is very amusing," Alice continued, "to hear Patiencesoliloquize about it and construct the whole drama.

"But you cannot say, Philip, that you are not warned (!) and you know thatPatience is almost a prophet in the way she has of putting thingstogether. Celia was here recently looking after the little house thathas been rented ever since the death of her mother. I never saw her lookso well and handsome, and yet there was a sort of air about her as if shehad been in public a good deal and was quite capable of taking care ofherself. But she was that way when she was little.

"I think she is a good friend of yours. Well, Phil, if you do ever happento see that Evelyn in the opera, or anywhere, tell me how she looks andwhat she has on--if you can."

The story had not specially interested Philip, except as it was connectedwith Brad's newspaper prospects, but letters, like those referred to,received from time to time, began to arouse a personal interest. Ofcourse merely a psychological interest, though the talk here and there atdinner-tables stimulated his desire, at least, to see the subject ofthem. But in this respect he was to be gratified, in the usual waythings desired happen in life--that is, by taking pains to bring themabout.

When Mr. Brad came back from his vacation his manner had somewhatchanged. He had the air of a person who stands on firm ground.He felt that he was a personage. He betrayed this in a certaindeliberation of speech, as if any remark from him now might be important.In a way he felt himself related to public affairs.

In short, he had exchanged the curiosity of the reporter for theomniscience of the editor. And for a time Philip was restrained fromintruding the subject of the Mavick sensation. However, one day afterdinner he ventured:

Philip did not tell his interlocutor that, so far as he knew, nobody inthe country had ever heard the name of Olin Brad, or knew there was sucha person in existence. But he went on:

"Certainly. And, besides, there is a great curiosity to know about thegirl. Did you ever see her?"

"Only in public. I don't know Mavick personally, and for reasons," andMr. Brad laughed in a superior manner. "It's easy enough to see her."

"How?"

"Watch out for a Wagner night, and go to the opera. You'll see whereMavick's box is in the bill. She is pretty sure to be there, and hermother. There is nothing special about her; but her mother is still avery fascinating woman, I can tell you. You'll find her sure on a'Carmen' night, but not so sure of the girl."

On this suggestion Philip promptly acted. The extra expense of anorchestra seat he put down to his duty to keep his family informed ofanything that interested them in the city. It was a "Siegfried" night,and a full house. To describe it all would be very interesting to Alice.The Mavick box was empty until the overture was half through. Thenappeared a gentleman who looked as if he were performing a public duty,a lady who looked as if she were receiving a public welcome, and seatedbetween them a dark, slender girl, who looked as if she did not see thepublic at all, but only the orchestra.

Behind them, in the shadow, a middle-aged woman in plainer attire.It must be the Scotch governess. Mrs. Mavick had her eyeseverywhere about the house, and was graciously bowing to her friends.Mr. Mavick coolly and unsympathetically regarded the house, quiteconscious of it, but as if he were a little bored. You could not see himwithout being aware that he was thinking of other things, probably offar-reaching schemes. People always used to say of Mavick, when he wasyoung and a clerk in a Washington bureau, that he looked omniscient. Atleast the imagination of spectators invested him with a golden hue, andregarded him through the roseate atmosphere that surrounds a many-millioned man. The girl had her eyes always on the orchestra, and waswaiting for the opening of the world that lay behind the drop-curtain.Philip noticed that all the evening Mrs. Mavick paid very littleattention to the stage, except when the rest of the house was so darkthat she could distinguish little in it.

Fortunately for Philip, in his character of country reporter, the Mavickbox was near the stage, and he could very well see what was going on init, without wholly distracting his attention from Wagner's sometimes verydimly illuminated creation.

There are faces and figures that compel universal attention andadmiration. Commonly there is one woman in a theatre at whom all glancesare leveled. It is a mystery why one face makes only an individualappeal, and an appeal much stronger than that of one universally admired.The house certainly concerned itself very little about the shy and darkheiress in the Mavick box, having with regard to her only a moment'scuriosity. But the face instantly took hold of Philip. He found it moreinteresting to read the play in her face than on the stage. He seemedinstantly to have established a chain of personal sympathy with her. Sointense was his regard that it seemed as if she must, if there isanything in the telepathic theory of the interchange of feeling, havebeen conscious of it. That she was, however, unconscious of anyinfluence reaching her except from the stage was perfectly evident. Shewas absorbed in the drama, even when the drama was almost lost indarkness, and only an occasional grunting ejaculation gave evidence thatthere was at least animal life responsive to the continual pleading,suggesting, inspiring strains of the orchestra. In the semi-gloom andgroping of the under-world, it would seem that the girl felt thatmystery of life which the instruments were trying to interpret.

At any rate, Philip could see that she was rapt away into that otherworld of the past, to a practical unconsciousness of her immediatesurroundings. Was it the music or the poetic idea that held her?Perhaps only the latter, for it is Wagner's gift to reach by hiscreations those who have little technical knowledge of music. At anyrate, she was absorbed, and so perfectly was the progress of the dramarepeated in her face that Philip, always with the help of the orchestra,could trace it there.

But presently something more was evident to this sympathetic student ofher face. She was not merely discovering the poet's world, she wasfinding out herself. As the drama unfolded, Philip was more interestedin this phase than in the observation of her enjoyment and appreciation.To see her eyes sparkle and her cheeks glow with enthusiasm during thesword-song was one thing, but it was quite another when Siegfried beganhis idyl, that nature and bird song of the awakening of the whole beingto the passion of love. Then it was that Evelyn's face had a look ofsurprise, of pain, of profound disturbance; it was suffused with blushes,coming and going in passionate emotion; the eyes no longer blazed, butwere softened in a melting tenderness of sympathy, and her whole personseemed to be carried into the stream of the great life passion. When itceased she sank back in her seat, and blushed still more, as if in fearthat some one had discovered her secret.

Afterwards, when Philip had an opportunity of knowing Evelyn Mavick, andknowing her very well, and to some extent having her confidence, he usedto say to himself that he had little to learn--the soul of the woman wasperfectly revealed to him that night of "Siegfried."

As the curtain went down, Mrs. Mavick, whose attention had not beenspecially given to the artists before, was clapping her hands in a greatstate of excitement.

"Why don't you applaud, child?"

"Oh, mother," was all the girl could say, with heaving breast anddowncast eyes.

X

All winter long that face seemed to get between Philip and his work. Itwas an inspiration to his pen when it ran in the way of literature, but adistinct damage to progress in his profession. He had seen Evelyn again,more than once, at the opera, and twice been excited by a passing glimpseof her on a crisp, sunny afternoon in the Mavick carriage in the Park-always the same bright, eager face. So vividly personal was theinfluence upon him that it seemed impossible that she should not be awareof it--impossible that she could not know there was such a person in theworld as Philip Burnett.

Fortunately youth can create its own world. Between the secludeddaughter of millions and the law clerk was a great gulf, but this did notprevent Evelyn's face, and, in moments of vanity, Evelyn herself, frombelonging to Philip's world. He would have denied--we have a habit oflying to ourselves quite as much as to others--that he ever dreamed ofpossessing her, but nevertheless she entered into his thoughts and hisfuture in a very curious way. If he saw himself a successful lawyer, herimage appeared beside him. If his story should gain the publicattention, and his occasional essays come to be talked of, it wasEvelyn's interest and approval that he caught himself thinking about.And he had a conviction that she was one to be much more interested inhim as a man of letters than as a lawyer. This might be true. InPhilip's story, which was very slowly maturing, the heroine fell in lovewith a young man simply for himself, and regardless of the fact that hewas poor and had his career to make. But he knew that if his novel evergot published the critics would call it a romance, and not a transcriptof real life. Had not women ceased to be romantic and ceased to indulgein vagaries of affection?

Was it that Philip was too irresolute to cut either law or literature,and go in, single-minded, for a fortune of some kind, and a place?Or was it merely that he had confidence in the winning character of hisown qualities and was biding his time? If it was a question of makinghimself acceptable to a woman--say a woman like Evelyn--was it notbelittling to his own nature to plan to win her by what he could makerather than by what he was?

Probably the vision he had of Evelyn counted for very little in hishalting decision. "Why don't you put her into a novel?" asked Mr. Bradone evening. The suggestion was a shock. Philip conveyed the ideapretty plainly that he hadn't got so low as that yet. "Ah, you fellowsthink you must make your own material. You are higher-toned than oldDante." The fact was that Philip was not really halting. Every day hewas less and less in love with the law as it was practiced, and, courtingreputation, he would much rather be a great author than a great lawyer.But he kept such thoughts to himself. He had inherited a very good stockof common-sense. Apparently he devoted himself to his office work, andabout the occupation of his leisure hours no one was in his confidenceexcept Celia, and now and then, when he got something into print, Alice.Professedly Celia was his critic, but really she was the necessaryappreciator, for probably most writers would come to a standstill ifthere was no sympathetic soul to whom they could communicate, while theywere fresh, the teeming fancies of their brains.

The winter wore along without any incident worth recording, but stillfruitful for the future, as Philip fondly hoped. And one day chancethrew in his way another sensation. Late in the afternoon of a springday he was sent from the office to Mavick's house with a bundle of papersto be examined and signed.

"You will be pretty sure to find him," said Mr. Sharp, "at home aboutsix. Wait till you do see him. The papers must be signed and go toWashington by the night mail."

Mr. Mavick was in his study, and received Philip very civilly, as themessenger of his lawyers, and was soon busy in examining the documents,flinging now and then a short question to Philip, who sat at the tablenear him.

Suddenly there was a tap at the door, and, not waiting for a summons, ayoung girl entered, and stopped after a couple of steps.

"Oh, I didn't know--"

"What is it, dear?" said Mr. Mavick, looking up a moment, and then downat the papers.

"Why, about the coachman's baby. I thought perhaps--" She had a paper inher hand, and advanced towards the table, and then stopped, seeing thather father was not alone.

Philip rose involuntarily. Mr. Mavick looked up quickly. "Yes,presently. I've just now got a little business with Mr. Burnett."

It was not an introduction. But for an instant the eyes of the youngpeople met. It seemed to Philip that it was a recognition. Certainlythe full, sweet eyes were bent on him for the second she stood there,before turning away and leaving the room. And she looked just as trueand sweet as Philip dreamed she would look at home. He sat in a kind ofmaze for the quarter of an hour while Mavick was affixing his signatureand giving some directions. He heard all the directions, and carriedaway the papers, but he also carried away something else unknown to thebroker. After all, he found himself reflecting, as he walked down theavenue, the practice of the law has its good moments!

What was there in this trivial incident that so magnified it in Philip'smind, day after day? Was it that he began to feel that he hadestablished a personal relation with Evelyn because she had seen him?Nothing had really happened. Perhaps she had not heard his name, perhapsshe did not carry the faintest image of him out of the room with her.Philip had read in romances of love at first sight, and he had personalexperience of it. Commonly, in romances, the woman gives no sign of it,does not admit it to herself, denies it in her words and in her conduct,and never owns it until the final surrender. "When was the first momentyou began to love me, dear?" "Why, the first moment, that day; didn'tyou know it then?" This we are led to believe is common experience withthe shy and secretive sex. It is enough, in a thousand reported cases,that he passed her window on horseback, and happened to look her way.But with such a look! The mischief was done. But this foundation wastoo slight for Philip to build such a hope on.

Looking back, we like to trace great results to insignificant, momentaryincidents--a glance, a word, that turned the current of a life. Therewas a definite moment when the thought came to Alexander that he wouldconquer the world! Probably there was no such moment. The greatAlexander was restless, and at no initial instant did he conceive hisscheme of conquest. Nor was it one event that set him in motion. Weconfound events with causes. It happened on such a day. Yes, but itmight have happened on another. But if Philip had not been sent on thaterrand to Mavick probably Evelyn would never have met him. What nonsensethis is, and what an unheroic character it makes Philip! Is itsupposable that, with such a romance as he had developed about the girl,he would not some time have come near her, even if she had been locked upwith all the bars and bolts of a safety deposit?

The incident of this momentary meeting was, however, of greatconsequence. There is no such feeder of love as the imagination.And fortunate it was for Philip that his romance was left to grow in thewonder-working process of his own mind. At first there had been merely acuriosity in regard to a person whose history and education had beenpeculiar. Then the sight of her had raised a strange tumult in hisbreast, and his fancy began to play about her image, seen only at adistance and not many times, until his imagination built up a being ofsurpassing loveliness, and endowed with all the attractions that thepoets in all ages have given to the sex that inspires them. But thissort of creation in the mind becomes vague, and related to literatureonly, unless it is sustained by some reality. Even Petrarch mustoccasionally see Laura at the church door, and dwell upon the veileddreamer that passed and perhaps paused a moment to regard him with sadeyes. Philip, no doubt, nursed a genuine passion, which grew into anexquisite ideal in the brooding of a poetic mind, but it might in timehave evaporated into thin air, remaining only as an emotional andeducational experience. But this moment in Mr. Mavick's library hadgiven a solid body to his imaginations, and a more definite turn to histhought of her.

If, in some ordinary social chance, Philip had encountered the heiress,without this previous wonderworking of his imagination in regard to her,the probability is that he would have seen nothing especially todistinguish her from the other girls of her age and newness in socialexperience. Certainly the thought that she was the possessor ofuncounted millions would have been, on his side, an insuperable barrierto any advance. But the imagination works wonders truly, and Philip sawthe woman and not the heiress. She had become now a distinctpersonality; to be desired above all things on earth, and that he shouldsee her again he had no doubt.

This thought filled his mind, and even when he was not conscious of itgave a sort of color to life, refined his perceptions, and gave himalmost sensuous delight in the masterpieces of poetry which had formerlyappealed only to his intellectual appreciation of beauty.

He had not yet come to a desire to share his secret with any confidant,but preferred to be much alone and muse on it, creating a world which waswithout evil, without doubt, undisturbed by criticism. In this so realdream it was the daily office work that seemed unreal, and the companyand gossip of his club a kind of vain show. He began to frequent thepicture-galleries, where there was at least an attempt to expresssentiment, and to take long walks to the confines of the city-confinesfringed with all the tender suggestions of the opening spring. Even themonotonous streets which he walked were illumined in his eyes, glorifiedby the fullness of life and achievement. "Yes," he said again and again,as he stood on the Heights, in view of the river, the green wall ofJersey and the great metropolis spread away to the ocean gate, "it is abeautiful city! And the critics say it is commonplace and vulgar." Deardreamer, it is a beautiful city, and for one reason and another a millionof people who have homes there think so. But take out of it one person,and it would have for you no more interest than any other huge assemblyof ugly houses. How, in a lover's eyes, the woman can transfigure acity, a landscape, a country!

Celia had come up to town for the spring exhibitions, and was lodging atthe Woman's Club. Naturally Philip saw much of her, indeed gave her allhis time that the office did not demand. Her company was always for hima keen delight, an excitement, and in its way a rest. For though shealways criticised, she did not nag, and just because she made no demands,nor laid any claims on him, nor ever reproached him for want of devotion,her society was delightful and never dull. They dined together at theWoman's Club, they experimented on the theatres, they visited thegalleries and the picture-shops, they took little excursions into thesuburbs and came back impressed with the general cheapness andshabbiness, and they talked--talked about all they saw, all they hadread, and something of what they thought. What was wanting to make thischarming camaraderie perfect? Only one thing.

It may have occurred to Philip that Celia had not sufficient respect forhis opinions; she regarded them simply as opinions, not as his.

One afternoon, in the Metropolitan Picture-Gallery, Philip had beenexpressing enthusiasm for some paintings that Celia thought moresentimental than artistic, and this reminded her that he was getting intoa general way of admiring everything.

"You didn't use, Philip, to care so much for pictures."

"Oh, I've been seeing more."

"But you don't say you like that? Look at the drawing."

"Well, it tells the story."

"A story is nothing; it's the way it's told. This is not well told."

"It pleases me. Look at that girl."

"Yes, she is domestic. I admit that. But I'm not sure I do not preferan impressionistic girl, whom you can't half see, to such a thoroughbread-and-butter miss as this."

"Which would you rather live with?"

"I'm not obliged to live with either. In fact, I'd rather live withmyself. If it's art, I want art; if it's cooking and sewing, I wantcooking and sewing. If the artist knew enough, he'd paint a womaninstead of a cook."

"Then you don't care for real life?"

"Real life! There is no such thing. You are demonstrating that. Youtransform this uninteresting piece of domesticity into an ideal woman,ennobling her surroundings. She doesn't do it. She is level with them."

"It would be a dreary world if we didn't idealize things."

"So it would. And that is what I complain of in such 'art' as this. Idon't know what has got into you, Phil. I never saw you so exuberant.You are pleased with everything. Have you had a rise in the office?Have you finished your novel?"

"Neither. No rise. No novel. But Tweedle is getting friendly. Threwan extra job in my way the other day. Do you think I'd better offer mynovel, when it is done, to Tweedle?"

"Tweedle, indeed!"

"Well, one of our clients is one of the great publishing firms, andTweedle often dines with the publisher."

"For shame, Phil!"

Philip laughed. "At any rate, that is no meaner than a suggestion ofBrad's. He says if I will just weave into it a lot of line scenery, andset my people traveling on the great trunk, stopping off now and then atan attractive branch, the interested railroads would gladly print it andscatter it all over the country."

"No doubt," said Celia, sinking down upon a convenient seat. "I begin tofeel as if there were no protection for anything. And, Phil, that greatmonster of a Mavick, who is eating up the country, isn't he a clientalso?"

"Occasionally only. A man like Mavick has his own lawyers and judges."

"Did you ever see him?"

"Just glimpses."

"And that daughter of his, about whom such a fuss was made, I suppose younever met her?"

"Oh, as I wrote you, at the opera; saw her in her box."

"And--?"

"Oh, she's rather a little thing; rather dark, I told you that; seemsdevoted to music."

"And you didn't tell what she wore."

"Why, what they all wear. Something light and rather fluffy."

"Just like a man. Is she pretty?"

"Ye-e-s; has that effect. You'd notice her eyes." If Philip had beenfrank he would have answered,

"I don't know. She's simply adorable," and Celia would have understoodall about it.

"And probably doesn't know anything. Yes, highly educated? I heardthat. But I'm getting tired of 'highly educated'; I see so many of them.I've been making them now for years. Perhaps I'm one of them. And wheream I? Don't interrupt. I tell you it is a relief to come across asweet, womanly ignoramus. What church does she go to?"

"Who?"

"That Mavick girl."

"St. Thomas', I believe."

"That's good--that's devotional. I suppose you go there too, beingbrought up a Congregationalist?"

"At vespers, sometimes. But, Celia, what is the matter with you?I thought you didn't care--didn't care to belong to anything?"

"I? I belong to everything. Didn't I write you reams about my studiesin psychology? I've come to one conclusion. There are only two personsin the world who stand on a solid foundation, the Roman Catholic and theAgnostic. The Roman Catholic knows everything, the Agnostic doesn't knowanything."

Philip was never certain when the girl was bantering him; nor, when shewas in earnest, how long she would remain in that mind and mood. So heventured, humorously:

"The truth is, Celia, that you know too much to be either. You are whatthey call emancipated."

"Emancipated!" And Celia sat up energetically, as if she were now reallyinterested in the conversation. "Become the slave of myself instead ofthe slave of somebody else! That's the most hateful thing to be,emancipated. I never knew a woman who said she was emancipated whowasn't in some ridiculous folly or another. Now, Phil, I'm going to tellyou something. I can tell you. You know I've been striving to have acareer, to get out of myself somehow, and have a career for myself.Well, today--mind, I don't say tomorrow"--(and there was a queer littlesmile on her lips)--"I think I will just try to be good to people andthings in general, in a human way."

"And give up education?"

"No, no. I get my living by education, just as you do, or hope to do, bylaw or by letters; it's all the same. But wait. I haven't finished whatI was going to say. The more I go into psychology, trying to find outabout my mind and mind generally, the more mysterious everything is. Doyou know, Phil, that I'm getting into the supernatural? You can't helprunning into it. For me, I am not side-tracked by any of the nonsenseabout magnetism and telepathy and mind-reading and other psychicimponderabilities. Isn't it queer that the further we go into sciencethe deeper we go into mystery?

"Now, don't be shocked, I mean it reverently, just as an illustration. Doyou think any one knows really anything more about the operation in theworld of electricity than he does about the operation of the Holy Ghost?And yet people talk about science as if it were something they had madethemselves."

"But, Celia--"

"No, I've talked enough. We are in this world and not in some other, andI have to make my living. Let's go into the other room and see the oldmasters. They, at least, knew how to paint--to paint passion andcharacter; some of them could paint soul. And then, Phil, I shall behungry. Talking about the mind always makes me hungry."

XI

Philip was always welcome at his uncle's house in Rivervale. It was, ofcourse, his home during his college life, and since then he was alwaysexpected for his yearly holiday. The women of the house made much ofhim, waited on him, deferred to him, petted him, with a flatteringmingling of tenderness to a little boy and the respect due to a man whohad gone into the world. Even Mr. Maitland condescended to a sort ofequality in engaging Philip in conversation about the state of thecountry and the prospects of business in New York.

It was July. When Philip went to sleep at night--he was in the frontchamber reserved for guests--the loud murmur of the Deerfield was in hisears, like a current bearing him away into sweet sleep and dreams in aland of pleasant adventures. Only in youth come such dreams. Later onthe sophisticated mind, left to its own guidance in the night, wandersamid the complexities of life, calling up in confusion scenes longforgotten or repented of, images only registered by a sub-consciousprocess, dreams to perplex, irritate, and excite.

In the morning the same continuous murmur seemed to awake him into apeaceful world. Through the open window came in the scents of summer,the freshness of a new day. How sweet and light was the air! It wasindeed the height of summer. The corn, not yet tasseled, stood in greenflexible ranks, moved by the early breeze. In the river-meadows hayinghad just begun. Fields of timothy and clover, yellowing to ripeness,took on a fresh bloom from the dew, and there was an odor of new-mowngrass from the sections where the scythes had been. He heard the call ofthe crow from the hill, the melody of the bobolink along the meadow-brook; indeed, the birds of all sorts were astir, skimming along theground or rising to the sky, keeping watch especially over the garden andthe fruit-trees, carrying food to their nests, or teaching their youngbroods to fly and to chirp the songs of summer. And from the woodshedthe shrill note of the scythe under the action of the grindstone. Nosuch vivid realization of summer as that.

Philip stole out the unused front door without disturbing the family.Whither? Where would a boy be likely to go the first thing? To thebarn, the great cavernous barn, its huge doors now wide open, the stallsvacant, the mows empty, the sunlight sifting in through the high shadowyspaces. How much his life had been in that barn! How he had stifled andscrambled mowing hay in those lofts! On the floor he had hulled heaps ofcorn, thrashed oats with a flail--a noble occupation--and many a rainyday had played there with girls and boys who could not now exactlydescribe the games or well recall what exciting fun they were. Therewere the racks where he put the fodder for cattle and horses, and therewas the cutting-machine for the hay and straw and for slicing the frozenturnips on cold winter mornings.

In the barn-yard were the hens, just as usual, walking with measuredstep, scratching and picking in the muck, darting suddenly to one sidewith an elevated wing, clucking, chattering, jabbering endlessly aboutnothing. They did not seem to mind him as he stood in the open door.But the rooster, in his oriental iridescent plumage, jumped upon a fence-post and crowed defiantly, in warning that this was his preserve. Theyseemed like the same hens, yet Philip knew they were all strangers; allthe hens and flaunting roosters he knew had long ago gone toThanksgiving. The hen is, or should be, an annual. It is never made apet. It forms no attachments. Man is no better acquainted with the hen,as a being, than he was when the first chicken was hatched. Its businessis to live a brief chicken life, lay, and be eaten. And this remindedPhilip that his real occupation was hunting hens' eggs. And this he did,in the mows, in the stalls, under the floor-planks, in every hidden nook.The hen's instinct is to be orderly, and have a secluded nest of her own,and bring up a family. But in such a communistic body it is a wise henwho knows her own chicken. Nobody denies to the hen maternal instinctsor domestic proclivities, but what an ill example is a hen community!

And then Philip climbed up the hill, through the old grass-plot and theorchard, to the rocks and the forest edge, and the great view.It had more meaning to him than when he was a boy, and it was morebeautiful. In a certain peaceful charm, he had seen nothing anywhere inthe world like it. Partly this was because his boyish impressions,the first fresh impressions of the visible world, came back to him; butsurely it was very beautiful. More experienced travelers than Philipfelt its unique charm.

When he descended, Alice was waiting to breakfast with him. Mrs.Maitland declared, with an approving smile on her placid, aging face,that he was the same good-for-nothing boy. But Alice said, as she satdown to the little table with Philip, "It is different, mother, with uscity folks." They were in the middle room, and the windows opened to thewest upon the river-meadows and the wooded hills beyond, and through onea tall rose-bush was trying to thrust its fragrant bloom.

What a dainty breakfast! Alice flushed with pleasure. It was so good ofhim to come to them. Had he slept well? Did it seem like home at all?Philip's face showed that it was home without the need of saying so.Such coffee-yes, a real aroma of the berry! Just a little more, would hehave? And as Alice raised the silver pitcher, there was a deep dimple inher sweet cheek. How happy she was! And then the butter, so fresh andcool, and the delicious eggs--by the way, he had left a hatful in thekitchen as he came in. Alice explained that she did not make the eggs.And then there was the journey, the heat in the city, the grateful sightof the Deerfield, the splendid morning, the old barn, the watering-trough, the view from the hill everything just as it used to be.

"Dear Phil, it is so nice to have you here," and there were tears inAlice's eyes, she was so happy.

After breakfast Philip strolled down the country road through thevillage. How familiar was every step of the way!--the old houses juttingout at the turns in the road; the glimpse of the river beyond the littlemeadow where Captain Rice was killed; the spring under the ledge overwhich the snap-dragon grew; the dilapidated ranks of fence smothered invines and fireweeds; the cottages, with flower-pots in front; the stores,with low verandas ornamented with boxes and barrels; the academy in itsgreen on the hill; the old bridge over which the circus elephant darednot walk; the new and the old churches, with rival steeples; and, notfamiliar, the new inn.

And he knew everybody, young and old, at doorways, in the fields orgardens, and had for every one a hail and a greeting. How he enjoyed itall, and his self-consciousness added to his pleasure, as he swung alongin his well-fitting city clothes, broad-shouldered and erect--it isastonishing how much a tailor can do for a man who responds to hisefforts. It is a pleasure to come across such a hero as this in reallife, and not have to invent him, as the saying is, out of the wholecloth. Philip enjoyed the world, and he enjoyed himself, because it wasnot quite his old self, the farmer's boy going on an errand. There mustbe knowledge all along the street that he was in the great law office ofHunt, Sharp & Tweedle. And, besides, Philip's name must be known to allthe readers of magazines in the town as a writer, a name in more than onelist of "contributors." That was fame. Translated, however, intocountry comprehension it was something like this, if he could have heardthe comments after he had passed by:

"I heard he was down in New York trying to law it. I heard he's beenwritin' some for newspapers. Accordin' to his looks, must pay a durnsight better'n farmin'."

"Well, I always said that boy wa'n't no skeezics."

Almost the first question Philip asked Alice on his return was about thenew inn, the Peacock Inn.

"There seemed a good deal of stir about it as I passed."

"Why, I forgot to tell you about it. It's the great excitement.Rivervale is getting known. The Mavicks are there. I hear they've takenpretty much the whole of it."

"The Mavicks?

"Yes, the New York Mavicks, that you wrote us about, that were in thepaper."

"How long have they been there?"

"A week. There is Mrs. Mavick and her daughter, and the governess, andtwo maids, and a young fellow in uniform--yes, livery--and a coachman inthe same, and a stableful of horses and carriages. It upset the villagelike a circus. And they say there's a French chef in white cap andapron, who comes to the side-door and jabbers to the small boys likefireworks."

"How did it come about?"

"Naturally, I guess; a city family wanting a quiet place for summer inthe country. But you will laugh. Patience first discovered it. Oneday, sitting at the window, she saw a two-horse buggy driven by thelandlord of the Peacock, and a gentleman by his side. 'Well, I wonderwho that is-city man certainly. And wherever is he going? May be arailroad man. But there is nothing the matter with the railroad.Shouldn't wonder if he is going to see the tunnel. If it was just that,the landlord wouldn't drive him; he'd send a man. And they keep stoppingand pointing and looking round. No, it isn't the railroad, it's scenery.And what can a man like that want with scenery?

"He does look like a railroad man. It may be tunnel, but it isn't alltunnel. When the team came back in the afternoon, Patience was again atthe window; she had heard meantime from Jabez that a city man wasstopping at the Peacock. There he goes, and looking round more thanever. They've stopped by the bridge and the landlord is pointing out.It's not tunnel, it's scenery. I tell you, he is a city boarder.Not that he cares about scenery; it's for his family. City families arealways trying to find a grand new place, and he has heard of Rivervaleand the Peacock Inn. Maybe the tunnel had something to do with it."

"Why, it's like second sight."

"No, Patience says it's just judgment. And she generally hits it.At any rate, the family is here."

The explanation of their being there--it seemed to Philip providential--was very simple. Mr. Mavick had plans about the Hoosac Tunnel thatrequired him to look at it. Mrs. Mavick took advantage of this tocommission him to look at a little inn in a retired village of which shehad heard, and to report on scenery and climate. Warm days and coolnights and simplicity was her idea. Mavick reported that the placeseemed made for the family.

Evelyn was not yet out, but she was very nearly out, and after the latenotoriety Mrs. Mavick dreaded the regular Newport season. And, in themood of the moment, she was tired of the Newport palace. She always saidthat she liked simplicity--a common failing among people who are notcompelled to observe it. Perhaps she thought she was really fond ofrural life and country ways. As she herself said,

"If you have a summer cottage at Newport or Lenox, it is necessary to gooff somewhere and rest." And then it would be good for Evelyn to liveout-of-doors and see the real country, and, as for herself, as she lookedin the mirror, "I shall drink milk and go to bed early. Henderson usedto say that a month in New Hampshire made another woman of me."

Oh, to find a spot where we could be undisturbed, alone and unknown.That was the program. But Carmen simply could not be anywhere content ifshe were unnoticed. It was not so easy to give up daily luxury, andhabits of ease at the expense of attendants, or the ostentation which hadbecome a second nature. Therefore the "establishment" went along withher to Rivervale, and the shy, modest little woman, who had dropped downinto the country simplicity that she so dearly loved, greatly enjoyed thesensation that her coming produced. It needed no effort on her part toproduce the sensation. The carriage, and coachman and footman in livery,would have been sufficient; and then the idea of one family being richenough to take the whole hotel!

The liveries, the foreign cook in his queer cap and apron, and all thegoings-on at the Peacock were the inexhaustible topic of talk in everyfarmhouse for ten miles around. Rivervale was a self-respecting town,and principled against luxury and self-indulgence, and judged with a justand severe judgment the world of fashion and of the grasping, wickedmillionaires. And now this world with all its vain show had plumped downin the midst of them. Those who had traveled and seen the ostentation ofcities smiled a superior smile at the curiosity and wonder exhibited, buteven those who had never seen the like were cautious about letting theirsurprise appear. Especially in the presence of fashion and wealth wouldthe independent American citizen straighten his backbone, reassuringhimself that he was as good as anybody. To be sure, people flew towindows when the elegant equipage dashed by, and everybody found frequentoccasion to drive or walk past the Peacock Inn. It was only the noveltyof it, in a place that rather lacked novelties.

And yet there prevailed in the community a vague sense that millions werethere, and a curious expectation of some individual benefit from them.All the young berry-pickers were unusually active, and poured berriesinto the kitchen door of the inn. There was not a housewife who was nota little more anxious about the product of her churning; not a farmer whodid not think that perhaps cord-wood would rise, that there would be abetter demand for garden "sass," and more market for chickens, and whodid not regard with more interest his promising colt. When he drove tothe village his rig was less shabby and slovenly in appearance. Theyoung fellows who prided themselves upon a neat buggy and a fast horsemade their turnouts shine, and dashed past the inn with a self-consciousair. Even the stores began to "slick up" and arrange their miscellaneousnotions more attractively, and one of them boldly put in a window aplacard, "Latest New York Style." When the family went to theCongregational church on Sunday not the slightest notice was taken ofthem--though every woman could have told to the last detail what theladies wore--but some of the worshipers were for the first time a littlenervous about the performance of the choir, and the deacons heard thesermon chiefly with reference to what a city visitor would think of it.

Mrs. Mavick was quite equal to the situation. In the church she wasdevout, in the village she was affable and friendly. She madeacquaintances right and left, and took a simple interest in everybody andeverything. She was on easy terms with the landlord, who declared,"There is a woman with no nonsense in her." She chatted with the farmerswho stopped at the inn door, she bought things at the stores that she didnot want, and she speedily discovered Aunt Hepsy, and loved to sit withher in the little shop and pick up the traditions and the gossip of theneighborhood. And she did not confine her angelic visits to the village.On one pretense and another she made her way into every farmhouse thattook her fancy, penetrated the kitchens and dairies, and got, as she toldMcDonald, into the inner life of the people.

She must see the grave of Captain Moses Rice. And on this legitimateerrand she one day carried her fluttering attractiveness and patchoulyinto the Maitland house. Mrs. Maitland was civil, but no more. Alicewas civil but reserved--a great many people, she said, came to see thegraves in the old orchard. But Mrs. Mavick was not a bit abashed. Sheexpressed herself delighted with everything. It was such a rest, such aperfectly lovely country, and everybody was so hospitable! And AuntHepsy had so interested her in the history of the region! But it wasdifficult to get her talk responded to.

However, when Miss Patience came in she made better headway. She hadheard so much of Miss Maitland's apartments. She herself was interestedin decorations. She had tried to do something in her New York home. Butthere were so many ideas and theories, and it was so hard to be naturaland artificial at the same time. She had no doubt she could get some newideas from Miss Maitland. Would it be asking too much to see herapartments? She really felt like a stranger nowhere in Rivervale.Patience was only too delighted, and took her into her museum of naturalhistory, art, religion, and vegetation.

"She might have gone to the grave-yard without coming into the house,"Alice remarked.

"Oh, well," said her mother, "I think she is very amusing. You shouldn'tbe so exclusive, Alice."

"Mother, I do believe she paints."

With Patience, Mrs. Mavick felt on surer ground.

"How curious, how very curious and delightful it is! Such knowledge ofnature, such art in arrangement."

"Oh, I just put them up," said Patience, "as I thought they ought byrights to be put up."

"That's it. And you have combined everything here. You have given me anidea. In our house we have a Japan room, and an Indian room, and aChinese room, and an Otaheite, and I don't know what--Egyptian, Greek,and not one American, not a really American. That is, according toAmerican ideas, for you have everything in these two rooms. I shallwrite to Mr. Mavick." (Mr. Mavick never received the letter.)

When she came away it was with a profusion of thanks, and repeatedinvitations to drop in at the inn. Alice accompanied her to the firststone that marked the threshold of the side door, and was bowing heraway, when Mr. Philip swung over the fence by the wood-shed, with a shot-gun on his shoulder, and swinging in his left hand a gray squirrel by itsbushy tail, and was immediately in front of the group.

"No," said Philip, smiling, "unfortunately I cannot do this all thetime."

"You are of the city, then?"

"With the firm of Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle."

"Ah, my husband knows them, I believe."

"I have seen Mr. Mavick," and Philip bowed again.

"How lucky!"

Mrs. Mavick had an eye for a fine young fellow--she never denied that--and Philip's manly figure and easy air were not lost on her. Presentlyshe said:

"We are here for a good part of the summer. Mr. Mavick's business keepshim in the city and we have to poke about a good deal alone. Now, MissAlice, I am so glad I have met your cousin. Perhaps he will show us someof the interesting places and the beauties of the country he knows sowell." And she looked sideways at Philip.

"Yes, he knows the country," said Alice, without committing herself.

"I am sure I shall be delighted to do what I can for you whenever youneed my services," said Philip, who had reasons for wishing to know theMavicks which Alice did not share.

"That's so good of you! Excursions, picnics oh, we will arrange.You must come and help me arrange. And I hope," with a smile to Alice,"you can persuade your cousin to join us sometimes."

Alice bowed, they all bowed, and Mrs. Mavick said au revoir, and wentswinging her parasol down the driveway. Then she turned and called back,"This is the first long walk I have taken." And then she said toherself, "Rather stiff, except the young man and the queer old maid. Butwhat a pretty girl the younger must have been ten years ago! Thesecountry flowers!"

XII

Mrs. Mavick thought herself fortunate in finding, in the socialwilderness of Rivervale, such a presentable young gentleman as Philip.She had persuaded herself that she greatly enjoyed her simple intercoursewith the inhabitants, and she would have said that she was in deepsympathy with their lives. No doubt in New York she would relate hersummer adventures as something very amusing, but for the moment thisadaptable woman seemed to herself in a very ingenuous, receptive, andsympathetic state of mind. Still, there was a limit to the entertainingpower of Aunt Hepsy, which was perceived when she began to repeat herannals of the neighborhood, and to bring forward again and again thelittle nuggets of wisdom which she had evolved in the small circle of herexperience. And similarly Mrs. Mavick became aware that there was amonotony in the ideas brought forward by the farmers and the farmers'wives, whether in the kitchen or the best room, which she lighted up byher gracious presence, that it was possible to be tired of the mostinteresting "peculiarities" when once their novelty was exhausted, andthat so-called "characters" in the country fail to satisfy therequirements of intimate or long companionship. Their world is toonarrowly circumscribed.

The fact that Philip was a native of the place, and so belonged to aworld that was remote from her own, made her free to seek his aid inmaking the summer pass agreeably without incurring any risk of socialobligations. Besides, when she had seen more of him, she experienced agood deal of pleasure in his company. His foreign travel, his reading,his life in the city, offered many points of mutual interest, and it wasa relief to her to get out of the narrow range of topics in theprovincial thought, and to have her allusions understood. Philip, on hispart, was not slow to see this, or to perceive that in the higherintellectual ranges, the serious topics which occupied the attention ofthe few cultivated people in the neighborhood, Mrs. Mavick had littleinterest or understanding, though there was nothing she did not professan interest in when occasion required. Philip was not of a suspiciousnature, and it may not have occurred to him that Mrs. Mavick was simplyamusing herself, as she would do with any agreeable man, young or old,who fell in her way, and would continue to do so if she reached the ageof ninety.

On the contrary, it never seemed to occur to Mrs. Mavick, who wasgenerally suspicious, that Philip was making himself agreeable to themother of Evelyn. In her thought Evelyn was still a child, in leading-strings, and would be till she was formally launched, and the social gulfbetween the great heiress and the law clerk and poor writer was simplyimpassable. All of which goes to show that the most astute women are notalways the wisest.

To one person in Rivervale the coming of Mrs. Mavick and her train ofworldliness was unwelcome. It disturbed the peaceful simplicity of thevillage, and it was likely to cloud her pleasure in Philip's visit. Shefelt that Mrs. Mavick was taking him away from the sweet serenity oftheir life, and that in everything she said or did there was an elementof unrest and excitement. She was careful, however, not to show any ofthis apprehension to Philip; she showed it only by an increasedaffectionate interest in him and his concerns, and in trying to make theold home more dear to him. Mrs. Mavick was loud in her praise of Aliceto her cousin, and sought to win her confidence, but she was, after all,a little shy of her, and probably would have characterized her to a cityfriend as a sort of virgin in the Bible.

It so happened that day after day went by without giving Philip anythingmore than passing glimpses of Evelyn, when she was driving with hermother or her governess. Yet Rivervale never seemed so ravishinglybeautiful to all his senses. Surely it was possessed by a spirit ofromance and poetry, which he had never perceived before, and he wasted agood deal of time in gazing on the river, on the gracious meadows, on thegraceful contours of the hills. When he was a lad, in the tree-top,there had been something stimulating and almost heroic in the scene,which awakened his ambition. Now it was the idyllic beauty that tookpossession of him, transformed as it was by the presence of a woman,that supreme interpreter of nature to a youth. And yet scarcely awoman--rather a vision of a girl, impressible still to all the influencesof such a scene and to the most delicate suggestions of unfolding life.Probably he did not analyze this feeling, but it was Evelyn he wasthinking of when he admired the landscape, breathed with exhilaration thefresh air, and watched the white clouds sail along the blue vault; and heknew that if she were suddenly to leave the valley all the light would goout of it and the scene would be flat to his eyes and torturing to hismemory.

Mrs. Mavick he encountered continually in the village. He had taken manylittle strolls with her to this or that pretty point of view, they hadexchanged reminiscences of foreign travel, and had dipped a little intocurrent popular books, so that they had come to be on easy, friendlyterms. Philip's courtesy and deference, and a certain wit and humor ofsuggestion applied to ordinary things, put him more and more on a goodfooting with her, so much so that she declared to McDonald that reallyyoung Burnett was a genuine "find" in the country.

It seems a pity that the important events in our lives are socommonplace. Philip's meeting with Evelyn, so long thought of anddramatized in his mind, was not in the least as he had imagined it. Whenone morning he went to the Peacock Inn at the summons of Mrs. Mavick, inorder to lay out a plan of campaign, he found Evelyn and her governessseated on the veranda, with their books. It was Evelyn who rose firstand came forward, without, so far as Philip could see, the leastembarrassment of recognition.

"Mr. Burnett? Mamma will be here in a moment. This is our friend, MissMcDonald."

The girl's morning costume was very simple, and in her short walking-skirt she seemed younger even than in the city. She spoke and moved--Philip noticed that--without the least self-consciousness, and she had away of looking her interlocutor frankly in the eyes, or, as Philipexpressed it, "flashing" upon him.

Philip bowed to the governess, and, still standing and waving his handtowards the river, hoped they liked Rivervale, and then added:

"I see you can read in the country."

"We pretend to," said Evelyn, who had resumed her seat and indicated achair for Philip, "but the singing of that river, and the bobolinks inthe meadow, and the light on the hills are almost too much for us. Don'tyou think, McDonald, it is like Scotland?"

"It would be," the governess replied, "if it rained when it didn't mist,and there were moors and heather, and--"

"Oh, I didn't mean all that, but a feeling like that, sweet and retiredand sort of lonesome?"

"Perhaps Miss McDonald means," said Philip, "that there isn't much tofeel here except what you see."

Miss McDonald looked sharply around at Philip and remarked: "Yes, that'sjust it. It is very lovely, like almost any outdoors, if you will giveyourself up to it. You remember, Evelyn, how fascinating the Arizonadesert was? But there was a romantic addition to the colored desolationbecause the Spaniards and the Jesuits had been there. Now this placelacks traditions, legends, romance. You have to bring your romance withyou."

"And that is the reason you read here?"

"One reason. Especially romances. This charming scenery and the summersounds of running water and birds make a nice accompaniment to theromance."

"But mamma says," Evelyn interrupted, "there is plenty of legend here,and tradition and flavor, Indians and early settlers, and even AuntHepsy."

"Well, I confess they don't appeal to me. And as for Indians, Parkman'sdescriptions of those savages made me squirm. And I don't believe therewas much more romance about the early settlers than about theirdescendants. Isn't it true, Mr. Burnett, that you must have a humanelement to make any country interesting?"

Philip glanced at Evelyn, whose bright face was kindled with interest inthe discussion, and thought, "Good heavens! if there is not humaninterest here, I don't know where to look for it," but he only said:

"Doubtless."

"And why don't you writers do something about it? It is literature thatdoes it, either in Scotland or Judea."

"Well," said Philip, stoutly, "they are doing something. I could namehalf a dozen localities, even sections of country, that travelers visitwith curiosity just because authors have thrown that glamour over them.But it is hard to create something out of nothing. It needs time."

"And genius," Miss McDonald interjected.

"Of course, but it took time to transform a Highland sheep-stealer into aromantic personage."

Miss McDonald laughed. "That is true. Take a modern instance. SupposeEvangeline had lived in this valley! Or some simple Gretchen about whosesimple story all the world is in sympathy!"

"Or," thought Philip, "some Evelyn." But he replied, looking at Evelyn,"I believe that any American community usually resents being made thescene of a romance, especially if it is localized by any approach toreality."

"Isn't that the fault mostly of the writer, who vulgarizes his material?"

"The realists say no. They say that people dislike to see themselves asthey are."

"Very likely," said Miss McDonald; "no one sees himself as others seehim, and probably the poet who expressed the desire to do so was simplyattitudinizing.--[Robert Burns: "Oh! wha gift the Giftie gie us; to seeo'rselves as others see us. D.W.]--By the way, Mr. Burnett, you knowthere is one place of sentiment, religious to be sure, not far from here.I hope we can go some day to see the home of the 'Mountain Miller.'"

"Yes, I know the place. It is beyond the river, up that steep roadrunning into the sky, in the next adjoining hill town. I doubt if youfind any one there who lays it much to heart. But you can see the mill."

"What is the Mountain Miller?" asked Evelyn.

"A tract that, when I was a girl," answered Miss McDonald, "used to bebound up with 'The Dairyman's Daughter' and 'The Shepherd of SalisburyPlain.' It was the first thing that interested me in New England."

"Well," said Philip, "it isn't much. Just a tract. But it was writtenby Parson Halleck, a great minister and a sort of Pope in this region forfifty years. It is, so far as I know, the only thing of his thatremains."

This tractarian movement was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Mavick.

"Good-morning, Mr. Burnett. I've been down to see Jenkins about hispicnic wagon. Carries six, besides the driver and my man, and thehampers. So, you see, Miss Alice will have to go. We couldn't gorattling along half empty. I'll go up and see her this afternoon.So, that's settled. Now about the time and place. You are the director.Let's sit down and plan it out. It looks like good weather for a week."

"Miss McDonald says she wants to see the Mountain Miller," said Philip,with a smile.

"What's that? A monument like your Pulpit Rock?"

"No, a tract about a miller."

"Ah, something religious. I never heard of it. Well, perhaps we hadbetter begin with something secular, and work round to that."

So an excursion was arranged for the next day. And as Philip walkedhome, thinking how brilliant Evelyn had been in their little talk,he began to dramatize the excursion.

All excursions are much alike, exhilarating in the outset, rarely up toexpectation in the object, wearisome in the return; but, nevertheless,delightful in the memory, especially if attended with some hardship orslight disaster. To be free, in the open air, and for a dayunconventional and irresponsible, is the sufficient justification of acountry picnic; but its common attraction is in the opportunity forbringing young persons of the opposite sex into natural and unrestrainedrelations. To Philip it was the first time in his life that a picnic hadever seemed a defensible means of getting rid of a day.

The two persons to whom this excursion was most novel and exciting wereEvelyn and the elder maiden, Alice, who sat together and speedilydeveloped a sympathy with each other in the enjoyment of the country, andin a similar poetic temperament, very shy on the part of Alice and veryfrank on the part of Evelyn. The whole wild scene along the river wasquite as novel to Alice as to the city girl, because, although she wasfamiliar with every mile of it and had driven through it a hundred times,she had never in all her life before, of purpose, gone to see it. Nodoubt she had felt its wildness and beauty, but now for the first timeshe looked at it as scenery, as she might have looked at a picture in agallery. And in the contagion of Evelyn's outspoken enthusiasm she wasno longer afraid to give timid expression to the latent poetry in her ownsoul. And daring to express this, she seemed to herself for the firsttime to realize vividly the nobility and grace of the landscape. And yetthere was a difference in the appreciation of the two. More widely readand traveled, Evelyn's imagination took a wider range of comparison andof admiration, she was appealed to by the large features and thegrandiose effects; while Alice noted more the tenderer aspects, thewayside flowers and bushes, the exotic-looking plants, which she longedto domesticate in what might be called the Sunday garden on the terracesin front of her house. For it is in these little cultivated places bythe door-step, places of dreaming in the summer hours after meeting andat sunset, that the New England maiden experiences something of thattender religious sentiment which was not much fed in the barrenness ofthe Congregational meeting-house.

The Pulpit Rock, in the rough pasture land of Zoar, was reached by asomewhat tedious climb from the lonely farmhouse, in a sheltered nook,through straggling woods and gray pastures. It was a vast exposedsurface rising at a slight angle out of the grass and undergrowth. Alongthe upper side was a thin line of bushes, and, pushing these aside, theobserver was always startled at the unexpected scene--as it were theraising of a curtain upon another world. He stood upon the edge of asheer precipice of a thousand feet, and looked down upon a greenamphitheatre through the bottom of which the brawling river, an amberthread in the summer foliage, seemed trying to get an outlet from thiswilderness cul de sac. From the edge of this precipice the first impulsewas to start back in surprise and dread, but presently the observerbecame reassured of its stability, and became fascinated by the lonesomewildness of the scene.

"Why is it called Pulpit Rock?" asked Mrs. Mavick; "I see no pulpit."

"I suppose," said Philip, "the name was naturally suggested to areligious community, whose poetic images are mainly Biblical, and whothought it an advantageous place for a preacher to stand, looking downupon a vast congregation in the amphitheatre."

"So it is," exclaimed Evelyn. "I can see John the Baptist standing herenow, and hear his voice crying in the wilderness."

"Very likely," said Mrs. Mavick, persisting in her doubt, "of course inZoar. Anywhere else in the world it would be called the Lover's Leap."

"That is odd," said Alice; "there was a party of college girls came heretwo years ago and made up a story about it which was printed, how anIndian maiden pursued by a white man ran up this hill as if she had beena deer, disappeared from his sight through these bushes, and took thefatal leap. They called it the Indian Maiden's Rock. But it didn'ttake. It will always be Pulpit Rock."

"So you see, Miss McDonald," said Philip, "that writers cannot graftlegends on the old stock."

"That depends upon the writer," returned the Scotch woman, shortly. "Ididn't see the schoolgirl's essay."

When the luncheon was disposed of, with the usual adaptation to nomadicconditions, and the usual merriment and freedom of personal comment, andthe wit that seems so brilliant in the open air and so flat in print,Mrs. Mavick declared that she was tired by the long climb and the unusualexcitement.

"Perhaps it is the Pulpit," she said, "but I am sleepy; and if you youngpeople will amuse yourselves, I will take a nap under that tree."

Presently, also, Alice and the governess withdrew to the edge of theprecipice, and Evelyn and Philip were left to the burden of entertainingeach other. It might have been an embarrassing situation but for thefact that all the rest of the party were in sight, that the girl had notthe least self-consciousness, having had no experience to teach her thatthere was anything to be timid about in one situation more than inanother, and that Philip was so absolutely content to be near Evelynand hear her voice that there was room for nothing else in his thought.But rather to his surprise, Evelyn made no talk about the situationor the day, but began at once with something in her mind, a directnessof mental operation that he found was characteristic of her.

"It seems to me, Mr. Burnett, that there is something of what MissMcDonald regards as the lack of legend and romance in this region in ourlife generally."

"I fancy everybody feels that who travels much elsewhere. You mean lifeseems a little thin, as the critics say?"

"Yes, lacks color and background. But, you see, I have no experience.Perhaps it's owing to Miss McDonald. I cannot get the plaids and tartansand Jacobins and castles and what-not out of my head. Our landscapes arejust landscapes."

"But don't you think we are putting history and association into thempretty fast?"

"Yes, I know, but that takes a long time. I mean now. Take this lovelyvalley and region, how easily it could be made romantic."

"Not so very easy, I fancy."

"Well, I was thinking about it last night." And then, as if she saw aclear connection between this and what she was going to say, "MissMcDonald says, Mr. Burnett, that you are a writer."

"I? Why, I'm, I'm--a lawyer."

"Of course, that's business. That reminds me of what papa said once:'It's lucky there is so much law, or half the world, including thelawyers, wouldn't have anything to do, trying to get around it and evadeit.' And you won't mind my repeating it--I was a mite of a girl--I said,'Isn't that rather sophistical, papa?' And mamma put me down'--It seemsto me, child, you are using pretty big words.'"

They both laughed. But suddenly Evelyn added:

"Why don't you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Write a story about it--what Miss McDonald calls 'invest the region withromance.'"

The appeal was very direct, and it was enforced by those wonderful eyesthat seemed to Philip to discern his powers, as he felt them, and hisambitions, and to express absolute confidence in him. His vanity wastouched in its most susceptible spot. Here seemed to be a woman, nay, asoul, who understood him, understood him even better than Celia, thelifelong confidante. It is a fatal moment for men and women, that inwhich they feel the subtle flattery of being understood by one of theopposite sex. Philip's estimation of himself rose 'pari passu' with hisrecognition of the discernment and intellectual quality of the frank andfascinating girl who seemed to believe in him. But he restrained himselfand only asked, after a moment of apparent reflection upon the generalproposition:

"Well, Miss Mavick, you have been here some time. Have you discoveredany material for such use?"

"Why, perhaps not, and I might not know what to do with it if I had. Butperhaps you don't mean what I mean. I mean something fitting thesetting. Not the domestic novel. Miss McDonald says we are vulgarizedin all our ideals by so much domesticity. She says that Jennie Deanswould have been just an ordinary, commonplace girl but for Walter Scott."

"Then you want a romance?"

"No. I don't know exactly what I do want. But I know it when I see it."And Evelyn looked down and appeared to be studying her delicate littlehands, interlacing her taper, ivory fingers--but Philip knew she did notsee them--and then looked up in his face again and said:

"I'll tell you. This morning as we came up I was talking all the waywith your cousin. It took some time to break the ice, but gradually shebegan to say things, half stories, half poetic, not out of books; thingsthat, if said with assurance, in the city would be called wit. And thenI began to see her emotional side, her pure imagination, such arefinement of appreciation and justice--I think there is an immovablebasis of justice in her nature--and charity, and I think she'd be heroic,with all her gentleness, if occasion offered."

"I see," said Philip, rather lightly, "that you improved your time infinding out what a rare creature Alice is. But," and this more gravely,"it would surprise her that you have found it out."

"I believe you. I fancy she has not the least idea what her qualitiesare, or her capacities of doing or of suffering, and the world will neverknow--that is the point-unless some genius comes along and reveals them."

"How?"

"Why, through a tragedy, a drama, a story, in which she acts out herwhole self. Some act it out in society. She never will. Such sweetnessand strength and passion--yes, I have no doubt, passion under all thereserve! I feel it but I cannot describe it; I haven't imagination tomake you see what I feel."

"You come very near it," said Philip, with a smile. And after a momentthe girl broke out again:

"Materials! You writers go searching all round for materials, just aspainters do, fit for your genius."

"But don't you know that the hardest thing to do is the obvious, thething close to you?"

"I dare say. But you won't mind? It is just an illustration. I wentthe other day with mother to Alice's house. She was so sort of distantand reserved that I couldn't know her in the least as I know her now.And there was the rigid Puritan, her father, representing the OldTestament; and her placid mother, with all the spirit of the NewTestament; and then that dear old maiden aunt, representing I don't knowwhat, maybe a blind attempt through nature and art to escape out ofPuritanism; and the typical old frame farmhouse--why, here is materialfor the sweetest, most pathetic idyl. Yes, the Story of Alice. Inanother generation people would come long distances to see the valleywhere Alice lived, and her spirit would pervade it."

There could be but one end to such a burst of enthusiasm, and bothlaughed and felt a relief in a merriment that was, after all,sympathetic. But Evelyn was a persistent creature, and presently sheturned to Philip, again with those appealing eyes.

"Now, why don't you do it?"

Philip hesitated a moment and betrayed some embarrassment under thequestioning of the truthful eyes.

"I've a good mind to tell you. I have--I am writing something."

"Yes?"

"Not that exactly. I couldn't, don't you see, betray and use my ownrelatives in that way."

"Yes, I see that."

"It isn't much. I cannot tell how it will come out. I tell you--I don'tmean that I have any right to ask you to keep it as a secret of mine, butit is this way: If a writer gives away his imagination, his idea, beforeit is fixed in form on paper, he seems to let the air of all the worldupon it and it disappears, and isn't quite his as it was before to growin his own mind."

"I can understand that," Evelyn replied.

"Well--" and Philip found himself launched. It is so easy to talk aboutone's self to a sympathetic listener. He told Evelyn a little about hislife, and how the valley used to seem to him as a boy, and how it seemednow that he had had experience of other places and people, and how hisstudies and reading had enabled him to see things in their properrelations, and how, finally, gradually the idea for a story in thissetting had developed in his mind. And then he sketched in outlinethe story as he had developed it, and left the misty outlines of itspossibilities to the imagination.

The girl listened with absorbing interest, and looked the approval whichshe did not put in words. Perhaps she knew that a bud will never come toflower if you pull it in pieces. When Philip had finished he had amomentary regret for this burst of confidence, which he had never givento any one else. But in the light of Evelyn's quick approval andunderstanding, it was only momentary. Perhaps neither of them thoughtwhat a dangerous game this is, for two young souls to thus unbosomthemselves to each other.

A call from Mrs. Mavick brought them to their feet. It was time to go.Evelyn simply said:

"I think the valley, Mr. Burnett, looks a little different already."

As they drove home along the murmuring river through the golden sunset,the party were mostly silent. Only Mrs. Mavick and Philip, who sattogether, kept up a lively chatter, lively because Philip was elated withthe event of the day, and because the nap under the beech-tree in theopen air had brightened the wits of one of the cleverest women Philip hadever met.

If the valley did seem different to Evelyn, probably she did not think sofar as to own to herself whether this was owing to the outline of thestory, which ran in her mind, or to the presence of the young author.

Alice and Philip were set down at the farmhouse, and the company partedwith mutual enthusiasm over the success of the excursion.

"She is a much more interesting girl than I thought," Alice admitted."Not a bit fashionable."

"And she likes you."

"Me?"

"Yes, your ears would have burned."

"Well, I am glad, for I think she is sincere."

"And I can tell you another thing. I had a long talk while you weretaking your siesta. She takes an abstract view of things, judging theright and wrong of them, without reference to conventionalities or thepractical obstacles to carrying out her ideas, as if she had beeneducated by reading and not by society. It is very interesting."

"Philip," and Alice laid her hand on his shoulder, "don't let it be toointeresting."

XIII

When Philip said that Evelyn was educated in the world of literature andnot in the conflicts of life he had hit the key-note of her condition atthe moment she was coming into the world and would have to act forherself. The more he saw of her the more was he impressed with the factthat her discrimination, it might almost be called divination, and herjudgment were based upon the best and most vital products of the humanmind. A selection had evidently been made for her, until she hadacquired the taste, or the habit rather, of choosing only the best forherself. Very little of the trash of literature, or the ignoble--that isto say, the ignoble view of life-- had come into her mind. Consequentlyshe judged the world as she came to know it by high standards. And hermind was singularly pure and free from vulgar images.

It might be supposed that this sort of education would have itsdisadvantages. The word is firmly fixed in the idea that both for itspleasure and profit it is necessary to know good and evil. Ignorance ofthe evil in the world is, however, not to be predicated of those who arefamiliar only with the great masterpieces of literature, for if they aremasterpieces, little or great, they exhibit human nature in all itsaspects. And, further than this, it ought to be demonstrable, a priori,that a mind fed on the best and not confused by the weak and diluted, orcorrupted by images of the essentially vulgar and vile, would be morallyhealthy and best fitted to cope with the social problems of life. TheTestaments reveal about everything that is known about human nature, butsuch is their clear, high spirit, and their quality, that no one evertraced mental degeneration or low taste in literature, or want ofvirility in judgment, to familiarity with them. On the contrary, themost vigorous intellects have acknowledged their supreme indebtedness tothem.

It is not likely that Philip made any such elaborate analysis of the girlwith whom he was in love, or attempted, except by a general reference tothe method of her training, to account for the purity of her mind and hervigorous discernment. He was in love with her more subtle and hiddenpersonality, with the girl just becoming a woman, with the mysterious sexthat is the inspiration of most of the poetry and a good part of theheroism in the world. And he would have been in love with her, let hereducation have been what it might. He was in love before he heard herspeak. And whatever she would say was bound to have a quality ofinterest and attraction that could be exercised by no other lips. Itmight be argued--a priori again, for the world is bound to go on in itsown way--that there would be fewer marriages if the illusion of the sexdid not suffice for the time to hide intellectual poverty, and, what isworse, ignobleness of disposition.

It was doubtless fortunate for this particular lovemaking, though it didnot seem so to Philip, that it was very much obstructed by lack ofopportunities, and that it was not impaired in its lustre by too muchfamiliarity. In truth, Philip would have said that he saw very little ofEvelyn, because he never saw her absolutely alone. To be sure he wasmuch in her presence, a welcome member of the group that liked to idle onthe veranda of the inn, and in the frequent excursions, in which Philipseemed to be the companion of Mrs. Mavick rather than of her daughter.But she was never absent from his thought, his imagination was whollycaptive to her image, and the passion grew in these hours of absenceuntil she became an indispensable associate in all that he was or couldever hope to be. Alice, who discerned very clearly Mrs. Mavick and herambition, was troubled by Philip's absorption and the crueldisappointment in store for him. To her he was still the little boy, andall her tenderness for him was stirred to shield him from the sufferingshe feared.

But what could she do? Philip liked to talk about Evelyn, to dwell uponher peculiarities and qualities, to hear her praised; to this extent hewas confidential with his cousin, but never in regard to his own feeling.That was a secret concerning which he was at once too humble and tooconfident to share with any other. None knew better than he the absurdpresumption of aspiring to the hand of such a great heiress, and yet henursed the vanity that no other man could ever appreciate and love her ashe did.

Alice was still more distracted and in sympathy with Philip's evidentaspirations by her own love for Evelyn and her growing admiration for thegirl's character. It so happened that mutual sympathy--who can say howit was related to Philip?--had drawn them much together, and chance hadgiven them many opportunities for knowing each other. Alice had so farcome out of her shell, and broken the reserve of her life, as to makefrequent visits at the inn, and Mrs. Mavick and Evelyn found it the mostnatural and agreeable stroll by the river-side to the farmhouse,where naturally, while the mother amused herself with the originaleccentricities of Patience, her daughter grew into an intimacy withAlice.

As for the feelings of Evelyn in these days--her first experience ofsomething like freedom in the world--the historian has only universalexperience to guide him. In her heart was working the consciousness thatshe had been singled out as worthy to share the confidence of a man inhis most secret ambitions and aspirations, in the dreams of youth whichseemed to her so noble. For these aspirations and dreams concerned theworld in which she had lived most and felt most.

If Philip had talked to her as he had to Celia about his plans forsuccess in life she would have been less interested. But there wasnothing to warn her personally in these unworldly confessions. Nor didPhilip ever seem to ask anything of her except sympathy in his ideas.And then there was the friendship of Alice, which could not but influencethe girl. In the shelter of that the intercourse of the summer took onnatural relations. For some natures there is no nurture of love like thesecurity of family protection, under cover of which there is so little toexcite the alarm of a timid maiden.

It was fortunate for Philip that Miss McDonald took a liking to him.They were thrown much together. They were both good walkers, and likedto climb the hills and explore the wild mountain streams. Philip wouldhave confessed that he was fond of nature, and fancied there was a sortof superiority in his attitude towards it to that of his companion, whowas merely interested in plants-just a botanist. This attitude, whichshe perceived, amused Miss McDonald.

"If you American students," she said one day when they were seated on afallen tree in the forest, and she was expatiating on a rare plant shehad found, "paid no more attention to the classics than to the world youlive in, few of you would get a degree."

"Oh, some fellows go in for that sort of thing," Philip replied."But I have noticed that all English women have some sort of fad--plants,shells, birds, something special."

"Fad!" exclaimed the Scotchwoman. "Yes, I suppose it is, if reading is afad. It is one way of finding out about things. You admire what theAmericans call scenery; we, since you provoke me to say it, love nature--I mean its individual, almost personal manifestations. Every plant has adistinct character of its own. I saw the other day an American landscapepicture with a wild, uncultivated foreground. There was not a botanicalthing in it. The man who painted it didn't know a sweetbrier from athistle.

"Just a confused mass of rubbish. It was as if an animal painter shouldcompose a group and you could not tell whether it was made up of sheep orrabbits or dogs or foxes or griffins."

"So you want things picked out like a photograph?"

"I beg your pardon, I want nature. You cannot give character to a bit ofground in a landscape unless you know the characters of its details. Aman is no more fit to paint a landscape than a cage of monkeys, unless heknows the language of the nature he is dealing with down to the alphabet.The Japanese know it so well that they are not bothered with minutia, butgive you character."

"And you think that science is an aid to art?"

"Yes, if there is genius to transform it into art. You must know theintimate habits of anything you paint or write about. You cannot evencaricature without that. They talk now about Dickens being just acaricaturist. He couldn't have been that if he hadn't known the thingshe caricatured. That is the reason there is so little good caricature."

"Do you think that if Raphael had known nothing of anatomy the worldwould have accepted his Sistine Madonna for the woman she is?" was theretort.

"I see it is interesting," said Philip, shifting his ground again, "butwhat is the real good of all these botanical names and classifications?"

Miss McDonald gave a weary sigh. "Well, you must put things in order.You studied philology in Germany? The chief end of that is to trace thedevelopment, migration, civilization of the human race. To trace thedistribution of plants is another way to find out about the race. Butlet that go. Don't you think that I get more pleasure in looking at allthe growing things we see, as we sit here, than you do in seeing them andknowing as little about them as you pretend to?"

Philip said that he could not analyze the degree of pleasure in suchthings, but he seemed to take his ignorance very lightly. Whatinterested him in all this talk was that, in discovering the mind of thegoverness, he was getting nearer to the mind of her pupil. And finallyhe asked (and Miss McDonald smiled, for she knew what this conversation,like all others with him, must ultimately come to):

"Does the Mavick family also take to botany?"

"Oh yes. Mrs. Mavick is intimate with all the florists in New York. AndMiss Evelyn, when I take home these specimens, will analyze them and tellall about them. She is very sharp about such things. You must havenoticed that she likes to be accurate?"

"But she is fond of poetry."

"Yes, of poetry that she understands. She has not much of the emotionalvagueness of many young girls."

All this was very delightful for Philip, and for a long time, on onepretext or another, he kept the conversation revolving about this point.He fancied he was very deep in doing this. To his interlocutor he was,however, very transparent. And the young man would have been surprisedand flattered if he had known how much her indulgence of him in this talkwas due to her genuine liking for him.

When they returned to the inn, Mrs. Mavick began to rally Philip abouthis feminine taste in woodsy things. He would gladly have thrown botanyor anything else overboard to win the good opinion of Evelyn's mother,but botany now had a real significance and a new meaning for him.Therefore he put in a defense, by saying:

"Botany, in the hands of Miss McDonald, cannot be called very feminine;it is a good deal more difficult to understand and master than law."

"Maybe that's the reason," said Mrs. Mavick, "why so many more girls areeager to study law now than botany."

"Law?" cried Evelyn; "and to practice?"

"Certainly. Don't you think that a bright, clever woman, especially ifshe were pretty, would have an advantage with judge and jury?"

"Not if judge and jury were women," Miss McDonald interposed.

"And you remember Portia?" Mrs. Mavick continued.

"Portia," said Evelyn; "yes, but that is poetry; and, McDonald, wasn't ita kind of catch? How beautifully she talked about mercy, but she turnedthe sharp edge of it towards the Jew. I didn't like that."

"Yes," Miss McDonald replied, "it was a kind of trick, a poet's law.What do you say, Mr. Burnett?"

"Why," said Philip, hesitating, "usually it is understood when a man buysor wins anything that the appurtenances necessary to give him fullpossession go with it. Only in this case another law against the Jew wasunderstood. It was very clever, nothing short of woman's wit."

"Are there any women in your firm, Mr. Burnett?" asked Mrs. Mavick.

"Not yet, but I think there are plenty of lawyers who would be willing totake Portia for a partner."

"Make her what you call a consulting partner. That is just the way withyou men--as soon as you see women succeeding in doing anythingindependently, you head them off by matrimony."

"Not against their wills," said the governess, with some decision.

"Oh, the poor things are easily hypnotized. And I'm glad they are. Thefunniest thing is to hear the Woman's Rights women talk of it as a stateof subjection," and Mrs. Mavick laughed out of her deep experience.

"Don't you know, Evelyn," the governess explained, "that we have alwayssaid that women had a right to have any employment, or do anything theywere fitted to do?"

"Oh, that, of course; I thought everybody said that. That is natural.But I mean all this fuss. I guess I don't understand what you all aretalking about." And her bright face broke out of its look of perplexityinto a smile.

"Why, poor thing," said her mother, "you belong to the down-trodden sex.Only you haven't found it out."

"But, mamma," and the girl seemed to be turning the thing over in hermind, as was her wont with any new proposition, "there seem to be inhistory a good many women who never found it out either."

"But I think I don't care so much for the lawyers," Mrs. Mavickcontinued, with more air of conviction; "what I can't stand are thedoctors, the female doctors. I'd rather have a female priest about methan a female doctor."

This was not altogether banter, for there had been times in Carmen'scareer when the externals of the Roman Church attracted her, and shewished she had an impersonal confidant, to whom she could confess--well,not everything-and get absolution. And she could make a kind ofconfidant of a sympathetic doctor. But she went on:

"To have a sharp woman prying into all my conditions and affairs! No,I thank you. Don't you think so, McDonald?"

"But, for all that, women ought to understand about women better than mencan, and be the best doctors for them."

"So it seems to me," said Evelyn, appealing to her mother. "Don't youremember that day you took me down to the infirmary in which you areinterested, and how nice it was, nobody but women for doctors and nursesand all that? Would you put that in charge of men?"

"Oh, you child!" cried Mrs. Mavick, turning to her daughter and pattingher on the head. "Of course there are exceptions. But I'm not going tobe one of the exceptions. Ah, well, I suppose I am quite behind the age;but the conduct of my own sex does get on my nerves sometimes."

Evelyn was silent. She was often so when discussions arose. They wereapt to plunge her into deep thought. To those who knew her history,guarded from close contact with anything but the world of ideas, it wasvery interesting to watch her mental attitude as she was day by dayemerging into a knowledge of the actual world and encountering itscrosscurrents. To Philip, who was getting a good idea of what hereducation had been, an understanding promoted by his knowledge of thecharacter and attainments of her governess, her mental processes, it maybe safely said, opened a new world of thought. Not that mental processesmade much difference to a man in his condition, still, they had theeffect of setting her personality still further apart from that of otherwomen. One day when they happened to be tete-a-tete in one of theirfrequent excursions--a rare occasion--Evelyn had said:

"How strange it is that so many things that are self-evident nobody seemsto see, and that there are so many things that are right that can't bedone."

"That is the way the world is made," Philip had replied. She wasfrequently coming out with the sort of ideas and questions that are oftenproposed by bright children, whose thinking processes are not only freshbut undisturbed by the sophistries or concessions that experience haswoven into the thinking of our race. "Perhaps it hasn't your faith inthe abstract."

"Faith? I wonder. Do you mean that people do not dare go ahead and dothings?"

"Well, partly. You see, everybody is hedged in by circumstances."

"Yes. I do begin to see circumstances. I suppose I'm a sort of a goose--in the abstract, as you say." And Evelyn laughed. It was thespontaneous, contagious laugh of a child. "You know that Miss McDonaldsays I'm nothing but a little idealist."

"Did you deny it?"

"Oh, no. I said, so were the Apostles, all save one--he was a realist."

It was Philip's turn to laugh at this new definition, and upon this thetalk had drifted into the commonplaces of the summer situation and aboutRivervale and its people. Philip regretted that his vacation would sosoon be over, and that he must say good-by to all this repose and beauty,and to the intercourse that had been so delightful to him.

"But you will write," Evelyn exclaimed.

Philip was startled.

"Write?"

"Yes, your novel."

"Oh, I suppose so," without any enthusiasm.

"You must. I keep thinking of it. What a pleasure it must be to createa real drama of life."

So this day on the veranda of the inn when Philip spoke of his hatefuldeparture next day, and there was a little chorus of protest, Evelyn wassilent; but her silence was of more significance to him than theprotests, for he knew her thoughts were on the work he had promised to goon with.

"It is too bad," Mrs. Mavick exclaimed; "we shall be like a lot of sheepwithout a shepherd."

"That we shall," the governess joined in. "At any rate, you must make usout a memorandum of what is to be seen and done and how to do it."

"We are awfully obliged to you for what you have done." Mrs. Mavick wasno doubt sincere in this. And she added, "Well, we shall all be back inthe city before long."

It was a natural thing to say, and Philip understood that there was noinvitation in it, more than that of the most conventional acquaintance.For Mrs. Mavick the chapter was closed.

There were the most cordial hand-shakings and good-bys, and Philip saidgood-by as lightly as anybody. But as he walked along the road he knew,or thought he was sure, that the thoughts of one of the party were goingalong with him into his future, and the peaceful scene, the murmuringriver, the cat-birds and the blackbirds calling in the meadow, and thespirit of self-confident youth in him said not good-by, but au revoir.

XIV

Of course Philip wrote to Celia about his vacation intimacy with theMavicks. It was no news to her that the Mavicks were spending the summerthere; all the world knew that, and society wondered what whim ofCarmen's had taken her out of the regular summer occupations and immuredher in the country. Not that it gave much thought to her, but, when hername was mentioned, society resented the closing of the Newport house andthe loss of her vivacity in the autumn at Lenox. She is such a hand toset things going, don't you know? Mr. Mavick never made a flying visit